


The Peculiar Love Affair of Klaus Fischer and the Late David Katz

by Smallswritesstuff



Series: "Hey There, Soldier" [6]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Self-Indulgent as hell, if it matters to anyone? I'm picturing s2 dave and misfits-era rob but you do you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallswritesstuff/pseuds/Smallswritesstuff
Summary: Over the last eight months of his life, Klaus Fischer falls for the ghost of a young Vietnam vet.(A companion to “Broken Things All Pushed Into a Pile”.)
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Series: "Hey There, Soldier" [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016610
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	The Peculiar Love Affair of Klaus Fischer and the Late David Katz

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Broken Things All Pushed Into a Pile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139913) by [Smallswritesstuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallswritesstuff/pseuds/Smallswritesstuff). 



> This is a companion/sequel/??? to "Broken Things All Pushed Into a Pile", which is one of my takes on a Klaus who doesn't get adopted by Reginald Hargreeves in Sparrow Timeline. So tbh, you should read that one first, or else this won't make a ton of sense. 
> 
> These all take place between April and November of 2011. I think that's all the weird disclaimers. Enjoy whatever this is!

**November**

Inside of the treehouse is a long hallway. 

Soon after Dave first arrived, the Girl on the Bike had pointed him towards the building without a word of explanation. There are doorways in this hall to take him anywhere on earth that he really needs to go. He’s been able to watch his sister grow up. He’s been able to haunt the streets of Dallas. He knows he can’t be seen, or heard, or felt. Each place he goes is just as devoid of color and indifferent towards him as the valley below is.

This is the case for all of the doors except one. 

When he’d first seen it and entered, a long while ago, it’d been his first glimpse of color since he died. It’d been a warm, saturated world where he was seen, and heard, and felt. After that, he‘d just kept coming back to it, time and time again, weekly to daily. It was never about the illusion of life that the door promised - it was about the person who was always behind it. The one who made it that way.

The door has been missing for the longest, most nerve-wracking time. But now, here it is, right in front of him once again. He can’t push through it quickly enough.

He steps onto the carpet inside. It’s grey.

He looks all across the bedroom. There’s no chestnut shade to the walls. No vibrant red on the posters. No golden glow from the lamp set on the dresser. It’s just as colorless and blurry as the rest of the Girl’s domain. 

Dave finds Klaus sitting cross-legged on the bed, curled into himself, wrapped up in his too-long black cardigan. He looks up at him.

His lips curl into a weak smile. “Hi, Kitty Kat,” he murmurs.

But his eyes, wide and wet, their emerald hue drained for good, only seem to say _“I’m sorry.”_

Dave’s heart drops to the floor.

“Shit,” He breathes.

...

...

...

**June**

“I said to stop moving!”

Dave laughs and puts his arm back where it was on the bed. “You weren’t even looking at me!”

“I was gonna in a second!”

Klaus, who’d dragged the furniture of his room here and there and all about to get the perfect lighting from the window, is sitting in a chair a foot from the bed with his sketchpad against his propped-up knee. It’s far from proper technique, but Klaus has always been one to wing it. He’s been on a sober streak for a few days, which means his powers are letting Dave obey a few of the laws of physics, if the dip of the mattress underneath him is anything to go by. 

Drawing Dave is a new thing he’s trying (at least, it’s new that Dave is in the room and aware of it). They’ve been friends long enough now that it seemed like an easy request. It’s a win-win - Klaus gets a free model with a decent amount of patience, and Dave gets the closest thing he can to a photograph, to see what he actually looks like to him.

Dave didn’t realize until about fifteen minutes in that Klaus is practically getting therapy out of the deal too, by the way he’s rambling on and on. When he’s lost in the lines and shadow, his mouth almost moves faster than the charcoal in his hand. Not that Dave really minds. 

And despite Klaus’s few murmured Sorrys throughout this process, Dave hasn’t really minded the way he’s looking at him. Most of the time it’s artistic and calculating, but sometimes it drifts, and he’s just staring for a few seconds. It’s nothing invasive. Dave’s not even positioned provocatively or anything - just laying back, head turned slightly towards the light, acting “natural”. It seems like Klaus is apologizing simply because he likes looking at Dave.

Klaus tells him for the seventh time that he Needs to Stop Fidgeting before returning to the piece in front of him, and, consequently, the absurd tangent he was on. “But even though I _did_ steal her copic markers, she shouldn’t have...”

Dave is just happy to lay back, and listen, and feel the sunbeams against his face.

At some point, Klaus mindlessly babbles about an invitation he’d been given to go to a concert with some acquaintances.

“You should go with them,” Dave says. “It’ll probably be fun.”

“I don’t want toooo,” he whines. “I have nothing to talk to those guys about!” He’s scribbling furiously now, attention on his paper. “I’m painfully boring, these days.”

Dave rolls his eyes. “You’re not boring.”

“I’m pathetic!” Klaus proclaims. “I’m not in college, I never get to travel, I never know what movies people think are good..."

“Please,” Dave encourages sarcastically. “Continue listing all of your negative attributes.”

"Oh, I talk in my sleep, apparently.”

“To the dead,” Dave amends with an endeared snicker.

”Even worse!” Klaus declares. He’s focusing hard on one shadow now. “Also, I have this _terrible_ tendency of falling for dashing ghost boys from the Kennedy era, which is concerning for a multitude of reasons, not to mention my singing—“

Dave starts to shift to look at Klaus more directly. He’s barely moved an inch before he hears an exaggerated sigh.

“Christ, Dave, I told you to stay st—”

“Can I kiss you?”

For the first time all afternoon, Klaus goes completely silent. 

Impulsive as he is, he didn’t expect that this would be the moment he would feel the whim to mumble out a confession. Even less did he expect such a response.

But truth be told, they’ve been butting up against the inevitable for a while now. There have been a few too many moments of honesty and lingering touches. It makes too much sense that this is so clumsy.

He feels warmth flood his face but keeps his expression slack as he processes the question. Dave’s looking up at him, with expectancy and vulnerability in those stupid pretty blue eyes, and Klaus valiantly fights off every urge to immediately screw this up. Deflect. Joke. Smirk with some smartass comment - _“Have you ever even kissed a boy before, Katz?”_

Klaus’s pulse is pounding when he pushes out a reply. “Yeah,” he says, in a voice that is much smaller than he’d like it to be.

Dave sits up all at once and takes the side of Klaus’s face in his hand. Klaus can do no more than tilt his head into the touch before Dave’s leaning across the gap between them and pressing a kiss to his lips. 

He holds it there for a moment. It’s light and simple and sweet. But when he pulls away, Klaus feels lightheaded and shaky. He’s still at a loss for words as Dave looks into his eyes again. 

When Dave doesn’t get a response, he just reclines to his prior position. 

“Alright,” he says, putting his arm back to its place. His voice is all calmness and composure while he poorly suppresses a smile. “I’ll stop moving now.”

Klaus promptly drops his artwork to the floor and scrambles onto the bed. Dave is laughing again before Klaus leans over him and silences him with a deeper, proper kiss. 

...

...

...

**October**

It’s one of those evenings that Klaus just needs to get out of the house at all costs - whether it's to escape Amelia, or his dad, or his own head.

It was barely drizzling outside when he left, but he’d thrown on a silver raincoat before setting off for the park in the middle of the neighborhood. It‘s a stretch of grass with a rusty kiddie playground in the middle of it. It‘s always barren, especially this time of night. 

He’s sitting on a wooden bench dedicated to some long-dead rich guy with a tiny engraved plaque, taking the last drag of his cigarette. He feels smoke drifting easily from his mouth as he stamps it out.

“Littering,” Dave comments half-heartedly, sitting beside him.

“ _Lirrerehng_ ,” Klaus unintelligibly mocks. He grinds the toe of his sneaker into the remains of the cigarette. 

Dave exhales, a sort of silent chuckle of familiarity. Then they’re quiet again.

Sometimes Klaus brings his headphones down here, or his ghost journal, or even his sketchbook. Sometimes he doesn’t. He didn’t tonight. He’s just fidgeting with his lighter, a glittery purple gas station find, flicking the flame on and off. 

"I'm sorry," he says, softly, prompted by nothing. "About. Last week, when..." he shakes his head. "...And probably the week before, and then..."

"I know you are," Dave says. 

Klaus tucks the lighter back into his pocket. He knows he knows. They’ve been cycling like this more and more frequently lately. Sometimes it’s just so nauseating.

He glances down at the grass as it glistens in the falling rain. The drops are tapping a wandering little rhythm into the bench. Kind of like an improvisational pianist. 

"I think I'm an asshole,” Klaus mutters.

Dave meets his eyes. “Is that so?” He asks.

“It is. Sometimes,” he specifies. “Sometimes I‘m a real asshole.”

Dave considers that. “Yeah,” he agrees, without any malice. “But I still love you, even if you’re an asshole.”

Klaus is content with that. Not really forgiveness. More of a promise.

His love for Dave has always been tied up in trust and promises. It’s one of the only good things in Klaus’s life that feels like it’s here to stay. It gives him hope. It makes him feel real.

“I love you too,” he says.

Dave breathes that in. He doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he picks Klaus’s hand up off the bench, watches their fingers interlock, and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. 

They end up staying there, Dave leaning his head against Klaus’s shoulder, watching the metal swing set in front of them deteriorate, one raindrop at a time. 

...

...

...

** July**

> _“Trying to get away into the night_
> 
> _And then you put your arms around me_
> 
> _And we tumble to the ground...”  
>   
> _

“Okay,” Dave sighs, laid on the bed, his head resting on Klaus’s lap. “What the _hell_ is this?” 

Klaus gasps. He tears his hand away from where it was stroking Dave’s hair. “How dare you! This is a classic!”

Dave cringes. “It’s just so... bright,” he complains. “And tacky. It’s like the synth is yelling at me.”

Klaus nods. “Yeah. Exactly. That’s a quintessential sub-genre of eighties music.”

“Can you change it to my version now?” 

Klaus smiles and bends over, planting a quick peck onto his forehead. “Nope.”

Dave catches him by the collar of his cardigan and pulls him further down. He drags him into a long, fervent kiss, one that Klaus barely hesitates before pushing back into. It‘s still so new, so hungry and heart-racing every time, and Klaus has wondered if it’ll ever lose that shine, or if it’ll feel this way forever. 

Dave is the one who breaks away first, tugging back the slightest amount, talking right against Klaus’s lips. “Can you _please_ change the song, darlin’?” 

Klaus surrenders. “Oh, I guess, since you asked so nicely.” He punctuates the sentence with one more light kiss before reaching over to the nightstand for his phone. “Tommy and the Seashells?” He asks.

“Tommy James and the _Shon_ —”

“ _Wait-wait-wait-wait,_ got it.” He finds the track and presses play. A new bass line comes humming through the glowing Bluetooth speaker in the otherwise-dim room.

> _“Children behave...”_

Klaus returns his hand to Dave’s hair, scrunching his nose. “They sound flat.”

“I can’t even tell anymore,” Dave mutters. “I’ve heard it too many times.”

Klaus glances back over to the screen of his phone. “‘67?”

“Sarah played that record on loop when it first came out,” Dave explains. “She kept it a while, even played it for her kids one time, when the whole family came over.” He freezes in the middle of his recollection. “Grandkids,” he corrects. 

“Grandkids?” Klaus softly repeats.

Dave covers his face in his hands. “Holy shit. I’m a great uncle.”

Klaus laughs. “ _I_ think you’re pretty great, even if you _are_ a little old man.”

“I became a great uncle,” Dave reflects, “And I didn’t even get the chance to turn into my father.”

“Thank God for that,” Klaus replies. “He sounds like a giant dick-cactus.”

Dave drags his hands down and off of his face. “Alright, yeah, I’m sorry I brought him up.”

“Why?”

“It is _absolutely_ ruining the mood of the song.”

“I’m sorry,” Klaus says, “are you submitting that Timmy James and the Shondells’ ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ is particularly romantic?”

“Moreso than Tiffany’s,” Dave teases.

With his free hand, Klaus pantomimes being stabbed in the chest. _“Ouch.”_

“Maybe you’d understand if you kept your mouth shut and actually listened to it.”

“It’s physically impossible for me to stop talking for that long,” Klaus says. “You know this.”

“Can you try?” Dave asks. “For me?”

Klaus leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. “Okay,” he promises. “I’ll try.”  
  


> _“’Cause what would they say_
> 
> _If they only knew? And so we’re_
> 
> _Running just as fast as we can,_
> 
> _Holding onto one another’s hand...”_

_..._

_..._

_..._

**September**

“What did you do?”

Klaus heaves himself to sitting halfway upright. Dave found him like this as soon as the door finally opened again - eyes squeezed shut, crumpled up on top of his unmade bed, in old leggings and the cut-up tee from that concert he didn’t even like. “I went to Cody’s,” he grumbles.

Dave just keeps standing there, the hurt inside him stewing. “I thought you weren’t gonna use,” he says.

“I didn’t,” Klaus answers, rubbing his forehead.

“You’re a shit liar, you know that?”

Klaus groans. “Oh, cut me a frickin’ break, Davey...”

“You told me you wouldn’t,” Dave pushes. “You said you wanted to get better.”

“It’s not that simple, okay?” Klaus shoots back. "You have no idea how this feels."

"Then go get help. There are people you're supposed to call for this."

“No, no _._ You don't get it, and you're _never_ gonna get it,” Klaus says. He scoffs with a new thought. “I bet you _would’ve,_ though, if you hadn’t kicked the bucket so soon.”

Dave’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Jesus, you were only in the heat for, what, a month?” Klaus prods. “Do you have _any idea_ how much shit they would’ve strung you out on in ‘Nam?” 

“It’s not about me, Klaus,” Dave says. “ _You_ wanted to stop.”

 _For me,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t cite that night they stared at the ceiling, when Klaus swore he’d give up his highs for good if it meant he could reach out and hold Dave’s hand like this anytime he wanted. Because that seems secondary. What hurts is that Klaus broke the promise to himself. Again. What actually hurts a little bit more is the image of Klaus’s eyes glazing that certain way when he’s on another planet, or the agonizing tremors and grim mood that seize his body on the rockier comedowns. 

“I did,” Klaus agrees. “Then I didn’t.” He tips back over in bed and plants his face against a pillow. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving,” Dave says.

Klaus winces. “Baby, please, I have a headache.”

“You can’t just destroy yourself like this.”

“What did you think you were doing when you got on that bus, huh?”

Dave crosses his arms. “What bus?”

Klaus glares up at him. “Running away, is what you were doing. You didn’t want to face your problems, so you went and got yourself killed, so I don’t think you should be talking, partner.”

“Stop making this about me.”

“Okay!” Klaus declares, bolting upright. “You’re right. I’m so, _so_ sorry you died a shiny, perfect, innocent child war hero, and they wrapped your coffin in an American flag, and they printed a cute little piece of poetry for you in the newspapers.”

Dave steps closer, frustration boiling. “Shut _up_ , Klaus.”

“No, no, I’m sorry!” he exclaims, throwing an arm out. There’s a wild edge to his tone. “I’m sorry I’m just too messy and _too goddamn human_ for you!”

In this hypersensitive state, Dave knows Klaus will burn himself out eventually. He should really just let him be. But every time he gets to this point, he finds himself stupid enough to invest.

“None of that is what I’m saying,” he grinds out of his teeth.

“It sure sounds like it,” Klaus bites. 

No. Forget it. Dave is done. He turns and heads for the door that’ll take him back to the black and white and the peace and quiet.

Klaus hurls a pillow across the room. It passes right through Dave’s form and slams against the wall with an angry sound.

“You’re _not_ my guardian angel, or whatever the hell you think you are,” he shouts, voice crackling. “You were just as lost and confused and screwed-up as I am.”

When Dave turns around, Klaus is doing that bitter, slightly manic little chuckle that he’s come to hate.

“The only difference is,” Klaus says, “people gave a shit that you were gone.”

_...  
_

_..._

_..._

** April **

“Um.” Dave stammers, standing awkwardly in the middle of this color-flooded bedroom for the second time ever. “‘David’ isn’t necessary. Just ‘Dave’ is fine.”

Klaus - a different Klaus than the one he first thought it was, one with chopped messy hair and a clean face and skinny jeans and a carefree smile - quickly notes the revision in his composition notebook.

“Got it!” He says. 

He looks back up, casually twisting himself side to side on his office chair. “So, you’re back,” he starts. “They don’t usually come back.” His gaze floats away for a moment. “Or they _do_ come back, again and again and again, and I have to swat them away with a metaphorical stick, but those ones are different. You get what I mean.”

“Uh huh.” Dave's hands snake into his own pockets. Maybe that’ll help.

“What do you need?” Klaus asks. “You got unfinished taxes? Want to check up on someone? Curious about the future?” He leans forward with a smile. “What’s your pleasure, Davey?”

Dave thinks that he shouldn’t be feeling these butterflies. Not from Klaus’s earnest grin, or the sweetness that seeps into his tone, or the endearing way he's already bent his name. 

But... he’s already made it this far. He’s already decided to return. He’s already decided he wants to keep seeing the medium with the little black journal and artistic eye.

And as a con-man stranger in 1963 tried to tell him with everything but direct words, maybe these kinds of butterflies aren’t so horrible after all.

“Actually,” Dave answers, in a significant gesture of bravery, “do you know anything about... Destiny’s Children?”

Klaus’s smile drops. He simply sits back and squints, dumbfounded.

“What, like, Beyoncé?” 

  
  



End file.
